He Was Only Three
by tika12001
Summary: Jane Rizzoli has been through a lot. What could finally make her break? Rated M for dark subject matter, not for sexytimes. Warnings for child abuse, domestic abuse, murder, suicidal thoughts.


**Title: He Was Only Three**

 **Author: tika12001 (aka Katie)**

 **Rating: M (because of dark topics)**

 **Disclaimer: not mine, never will be, make no money, boo hoo. Preeeetty sure at this point though that even I in all my inexperienceness and dodginess and just plain hyperness could do a better job than the writers of this show, so if there is a job going, hell yeah I'd go for it. :-P**

 **Summary: Jane Rizzoli has been through a lot. What could finally make her break? Rated M for dark subject matter, not for sexytimes. Warnings for child abuse, domestic abuse, murder, suicidal thoughts**

 **Author's notes: Random thought popped into my head, created random story. Only short. Dark. Oh, and I WILL write more of My Saving Grace but I'm having SERIOUS fucking problems with talking myself down and telling myself I'm crap at everything and it's making it hard to write. So yeah. Not an excuse, just a fact, and I know I'll get over it eventually. Anyway, long story short, be patient, it will come soon. :-P**

 _R &IR&IR&I_

His name was Jeremiah. He was only 3. And today, you cradled him in your arms and listened for the sirens. You heard his dying gasps.

It was a case of domestic abuse. You vaguely remember the face of the man. He'd been to the police station before, reporting the abuse his wife inflicted, but he always went back to her. You suspected it was because of the child, because he thought that he could keep his boy safe, and also because, quite frankly, the man was a victim. Other police officers, you were ashamed to see, tended to laugh behind his back... they called him weak, sissy, coward... but you just saw another abuse victim, searching for a way out but believing they deserved to stay. It made your heart ache, but there was nothing you could do. You're a part of the homicide unit, after all. They don't call you in until it's too late.

You remember walking into the crime scene earlier this afternoon. The stench of blood... so familiar after all these years... hit you in the face with the power of a sledgehammer. Your jaw clenched and you walked forward cautiously, calling out your presence. The other police officers surrounded you, guns pointing in all directions, and so you don't see the man straightaway. It is only when the officer next to you sighs, that you register the blood pool just in front of you... that you see the man with a bullet hole through his head, evidence of old bruises littering his naked chest. Moving even more cautiously now, you and the group of officers proceed deeper into the house. When you hear the shout up ahead, you move forward, an army of blue simply trying to make the world safer.

The mother is there, holding the child to her chest. Jeremiah is calm, a dead look in his eyes and you feel your heart break. He has the look of a child who has lived through abuse; he has learned not to cry, because crying only makes things worse. He has learned to shut off, because then it doesn't hurt as bad.

He was only 3.

His mother had him clenched to her chest, a gun in her hand and a bizarre look on her face, a look that seemed to convey both smugness and complete panic. She is dangerous. You must move cautiously.

As one of the officers attempt to engage her, you slowly, oh so slowly, move around to her back, hoping to get into a position in which you can disengage her and remove her weapon. You are caught by minor details: the fleck of blood that rests so brightly on Jeremiah's pale cheek, the sparkle of the ring on his mother's hand, the way his legs dangle feet above the ground (he is only wearing one shoe, and vaguely, you wonder where the other one is) as she grips him tightly about the middle. Your heart pounds. This situation is real, horrifyingly real, and it must end happily. It _must._

He was only 3.

You can't help but envision the scenario he must have seen earlier that night. His father, pleading for the life of his child, and his mother, screaming that if she can't have the child, he, the father, won't have him either.

You've seen it before.

Your heart clenches once more as you think about the therapy this child will have to go through so he can recover from this.

Meanwhile, the officer is still talking to her, and it seems to be working. Her grip is loosening, her eyes appear to be losing that manic twinkle.

But then there is a light outside.

You're not sure what it is, either at the time or when asked for your statement hours later. It could have been an car headlight or it could have been a flashlight, but all you know is that when it flashed, it lit up the woman's face for a brief minute, and she reacts. You react too, but a split second too late.

Her gun goes off. And then so does yours.

Your aim was true, hers was not. She did not hit Jeremiah in the head, as she had no doubt intended to do, but clipped him on the neck. The blood starts pooling immediately. _Too fast_ , you think, _it's coming too fast_ , but still, you unhesitatingly cover the wound with one hand, stripping off your jacket with the other. You vaguely hear another officer calling an ambulance, but you know it's too late. You're not a doctor... you're not even all that intelligent, perhaps (certainly in comparison to Maura)... but you don't need a medical degree to be able to tell of this boy's imminent demise.

It's the blood. It's the blood pooling, rushing, the heart working hard to push the blood out quicker, the organ not realizing that its task was now killing its owner rather than keeping him alive. It's the colour red that seems to cover everything quickly, so quickly, and you can't help but wonder how it can all possibly come from this little boy, because goddamnit, he was only 3.

You aren't really aware of what the other officers are doing. At times it seems like they are standing stock still around you, and you want to scream at them to _just do something, for the love of God please DO SOMETHING_ , but other times it seems like they are moving too fast, that they are blurring at the edges of your vision, turning your sight red and you just want to tell them to _stop please, stop please and HELP ME._

You know that they are, though. They are helping. Whatever they are doing, it is what they have been trained to do, and these officers are your friends and people you are proud to serve with, so you know they are doing it well, but all you can see is the blood, and your own shaky fingers trying to stem the flow. All you can see is the light leaving this little boy's eyes, eyes that have seen far too much, experienced too much sorrow and not enough joy, and it is then that you feel yourself break a little.

You're not sure why it took so long. You're not sure why this little boy could do it to you, when countless other homicides could not. You're not sure why, because even after Hoyt, even after Dominic, you still had that fire, that seemingly endless _need_ for justice... but now, you can't help but envision your future. That cold, dark, dead future... and it is with sudden, chilling clarity that you foresee yourself, 5, 10, 20 years down the line, sitting in your lonely, dark apartment, tears on your face and your gun in your mouth. And it is _his_ face that you will see when you pull the trigger. It is the look in his eyes, of being finally, _finally_ free. And you will understand that feeling, perhaps better than anyone else ever could.

His name was Jeremiah.

He was only 3.

 **END**

 **Love to all, Katie xoxo**


End file.
